


October 5: "Take what you need."

by Qophia



Series: Qoph's Fictober 2018 [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Ficlet, Fictober, Flashback, Gen, M/M, Vignette, of the 'give your kids to the templars' sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 22:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16207418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qophia/pseuds/Qophia
Summary: Three moments when Anders' life was irrevocably shaped by the words "take what you need."





	October 5: "Take what you need."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coldturkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldturkey/gifts).



> this one goes out to my bud coldturkey, who, when i couldn't decide if the end was too cheesy, said, "if reading it embarrasses you, that means it's perfect and to smash the publish button before you can think better of it"

The chains on the boy’s wrists clattered softly as his mother unclenched his sweating hands to wrap them with her shaking ones.

Across the room, his father had unbolted their pantry for one templar as the other stood guard outside the cottage. His voice echoed out from the narrow space: _“It would be my honor to provision you and your comrade, ser.”_

His mother’s eyes searched the boy’s, drinking their color so greedily it spilled back out her own to track tears down her cheeks.

_“What you’re doing to protect us, it’s the least my family owes you.”_

The templars had been clear: There would be no satchel going with him. No pack, nor sack, nor bedroll. Not taking her eyes from his, the boy’s mother freed one hand to grope the mantle beside them. Finding the pillow she’d embroidered for the hearth last Wintersend, she lifted it down and pressed it to his palms.

_“Take what you need.”_

Her fingers clutched the boy's clutched the pillow crushed the pine needles within—a sharp scent to sting of home.

* * *

Justice took a seat next to Anders on the deadfall log the mage had dragged up to the fire to keep his ass off the damp ground through his watch. Finally. If the spirit was coming to relieve him, daybreak must be near.

... Actually, “taking a seat” was an overly generous description for an action that was, at best, a barely controlled collapse. Anders sighed, scarcely noticing anymore the tang of rotten flesh. “Far be it from me to critique anyone else’s sartorial habits, with what the Wardens have crammed me into lately,” he said, propping his friend more upright from where he was listing, “but what’s left of Kristoff really has seen better days.”

Justice slowly started tipping the other way.

“In a marsh.” Anders tugged Justice’s torso back toward the center, which then threatened to send him spilling off the back of the log. “Full of Blighted wolves and tears in the Veil.” He finally just wedged his staff against the back of the cuirass, and that seemed to stabilize things for the moment. “Which is, you know, saying something.”

Justice’s inhalation rattled. "It is time.”

“I should bloody well hope so. Even sitting on this log, I don’t think there’s a single inch of me that’s not clammy.” He shuddered dramatically.

“No, mage. It is _time_. You have shown me an injustice greater than any I have faced. Do you have the courage to accept my aid?"

“Oh. Ah.” Anders stood and stepped forward, looking to the east as the first hint of the sun he’d been waiting for began to silhouette the leaves against the sky. Kristoff’s eyes were shriveled in their sockets, but Anders could feel Justice’s gaze on his back. “Did you know, it doesn’t rise at the same time everywhere? If you run toward it, it’s a bit sooner. Away, and it’s a bit later.” He sighed. “It always comes back eventually, though.”

Anders turned on his heel, back toward the fire, back toward Justice.

He breathed in the woodsmoke and the unpyred corpse, the fresh leaves and the fallen litter. He felt the taint in his blood and the hum of the Veil.

He dropped his wards and opened his arms to his friend.

“Take what you need.”

* * *

“Shhhhhhhhit. Shit, shit, shit. Fucking shit _fuck_ shit shit.”

Anders slumped in a sewer intake, listening to the Champion of Kirkwall swear as the city of Kirkwall burned. He may have been handed back the life he’d never expected to keep, but under the circumstances it was hard to imagine exactly what he was supposed to do with it. Justice was, for a change, shockingly silent on the subject. A pair of sharp-toed boots stopped under his eyes, and he looked up.

“You’ve still got your key?”

Anders nodded cautiously.

“Okay. Great. Perfect. Great. Okay.” Garrett fisted his hands in his hair as he returned to pacing, sweat and blood leaving it spiked in all directions. “I am going to duck down to the docks, make sure Bela’s boat is clear. You head upstairs, check to see that Orana and Bodahn and Sandal are all right. Let them know they’re welcome to stay or leave, whichever makes them feel safer. Bodahn can help himself to anything he thinks would be useful on the road if they decide to go.”

Anders drew a shaky breath. “And me?”

Garrett stared at him. “Is that a joke? That is a joke. It must be a joke. Good. You can handle the jokes today.” Anders’ fellow apostate grasped him gently by the shoulders. “Anders. Love. There’s _no way_ you’re safe here. You _know_ there’s no way you’re safe here. We have to get you out of Kirkwall before the place expl—. Before Sebastian mobilizes an army by...”

“... Mesmerizing them with that blasphemous belt buckle?”

“By mesmerizing them with that blasphemous belt buckle, yes, exactly. See, there you go, pulling your joke weight already.” Garret squeezed once, then straightened from his crouch. Back to the pacing again. “Can’t take the time to drag trunks or even proper luggage through the streets. Maker, listen to me. ‘Proper luggage.’ What an ass. Anyway. It will have to be something light, portable. I don’t suppose you remember where we stashed the rucksacks after the last jaunt to the coast?”

Anders started to nod, bobbled his head toward a shake, and finally compromised on a sort of shrug. “Maybe? Ish?”

“Bodahn should know. Okay. Rucksacks. Uhhhhhh. Clothes. Food—Bela will have provisions, but supplementing will help. Preferably preserved. Or maybe fresh? Bribe the sailors with fruit? Um. That horrible little portrait of my family I always complain about how much I hate. Your manifesto notes. Did I say clothes? Clothes. Especially smallclothes. They’re small! And necessary. Very necessary.” Garrett growled and threw his hands up. “Oh, I don’t know! _You_ _’re_ Messere Experienced Runaway Apostate.”

Anders flinched. Garret was too busy absently kicking at a loose brick in the wall to notice.

“I guess just... take what we need? I’ll be back as soon as I can to help you figure out what personal stuff we can cram into whatever space is left.”

Anders blinked. We? “... We?”

Garret turned to look at him. “Yes?”

Anders stared at him.

Garret stared at him.

Anders stared at him.

Garret gave a cough that started sheepish and ended as more of a smoky-lunged hack. “Sorry, was that not clear?”

Anders lurched to his feet and careened his lover into the wall. As Garret’s arms came up around him, Anders brought their lips together and, for just a moment, he took what he needed.


End file.
